Uncovering You 7: Resurrection (3 page)

“To me?” I scoff. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t have any influence over—”

I stop when Hugh brings out an envelope and slides it across the table. “For you,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Look.”

I peel open the top.

Inside, I find a collection of photographs. Some are grainy and blurry, obviously taken from a distance. Others are clear as if the photographer stood ten feet away.

They show us—Jeremy and me—on his tropical island. There are ones of us swimming. Others of us holding hands, cuddling on the beach. My eyes widen in shock as I leaf through green tinted photographs, taken at night, showing us making love.

“How did you get these?” I ask. My voice is hoarse. “Who else has them? Who else knows?”

“None but I, my dear,” Hugh tells me. He reaches across and pats my hand in a disturbingly fatherly gesture. “Keep them. They are yours. I’ve got copies.”

“If you’re trying to blackmail me…” I begin.

He chuckles and leans back. “No, Miss Ryder. I am not. But given your new—and might I say—quite
fortuitous
position within the company, I thought you might like to know. I understand you are in charge of PR?”

I nod dumbly.

Hugh leans back. “Now then, imagine the scandal that might arise should these photographs find themselves in the wrong hands.”

“What are you saying…?”

“Only that we are about to enter dangerous waters, Miss Ryder. There are sharks around. And they have smelled blood.”

He stands. “But I don’t want you concerned. Your secret, for the moment, is safe with me. We’ll talk again soon.”

I stand, knowing I’ve been dismissed, and reel toward the door, the envelope of photographs tight to my side.

“Oh, Miss Ryder?” Hugh calls out, just as I’m about to turn the handle. I look back at him. “I notice you’ve forsworn a certain adornment you used to wear.”

He touches his neck.

And then, to my horror, reaches into his desk and pulls out a perfect replica of my collar.

“I have one more here, fully functional, should you wish.”

Chapter Four

I dash from Hugh’s office, my vision spinning. I feel nauseous, light-headed, dizzy. My stomach churns, doing flips. I rush blindly to the elevator and hit the call button. Again, and again, and again.

The doors open. I throw myself inside. They start to slide shut. Already, I’m hammering the button for the top floor.

Jeremy. I need to see Jeremy. He can tell me what’s going on. He can tell me who this ‘Hugh’ is. He can tell me what the photographs mean, what we’re going to do with them, why he’s being watched by members of his own board…

The doors are fully shut now, and I’m alone inside. Still, the elevator isn’t moving.

Why isn’t the elevator moving?

I feel frantic. Panicked. Trapped.

I pound on the button with growing urgency. Only then do I hear the computerized female voice coming through the speaker, repeating the same phrase over and over, prompted by each one of my desperate presses.

“
Access denied. Access denied. Access denied.”

Of course! I’m a moron. To get to Jeremy’s floor requires that damn implant. That chip in his wrist. Plus the retina scan…

Beads of sweat form on my back, making my clothes feel too heavy, too restricting. My palms are clammy. I’m freaking out, close to a panic attack. Not knowing what else to do, I keep hitting that top button. And I keep being greeted by that mocking voice.

“Access denied. Access denied. Access – ”

Suddenly, I remember my cell phone.
My
cell phone. Jesus, what does it say for my mental state if it took me that long to think of it?

I pull it out and dial Jeremy. I press it to my ear and start to pace back and forth as I wait for the call to go through.

It doesn’t ring. I wait and wait, but I don’t hear the phone ringing. Why isn’t it ringing? I look at the screen, thinking maybe I forgot to hit ‘call’… and then I see the empty triangle where the signal status should be.

No shit you can’t make the call!
An inner voice screams at me.
You’re in a fucking elevator! A closed metal box!

My eyes dart from wall to wall.

Trapped,
I think.
I’m trapped, trapped, trapped!

The weight of the steel, the sturdiness of its construction presses down on me. I feel the pressure from every side. I look at the doors. I can’t go back out there. Not without Jeremy. Not when I know there’s another collar waiting for me on this floor.

I’m going crazy. I’m on the verge of breaking down. I try to slow my breathing, to take deep, heavy inhales and calm my frenetic thoughts.

Nope. It doesn’t work. If anything, it heightens my anxiety. Somebody else knows about the collar. Somebody
else
has a copy of the collar.

Somebody else could spring it on my neck.

My back hits the cold, metal wall. My knees give out. I slide all the way to the floor, press my knees tight to my chest, and begin to shake.

With a little jerk, the elevator starts to move.

I look around dumbly. The elevator’s moving
up
. I can feel it through the floor. It stops, and the doors open.

Through blurry eyes, I see Jeremy striding toward me, along the far side of the hall, moving fast. He looks determined, but also alarmed.

Without thought, I pick myself up and rush into his arms. He holds me. I can feel his strength, his firmness against me. With every breath I take, I breathe him in, finding comfort in the familiarity of his cologne, his aftershave, and
him
.

I break down and sob uncontrollably.

“Lilly,” he says. “Talk to me. What happened? What’s wrong?”

I want to tell him, but the words don’t come. All I am capable of is more crying. I shake my head back and forth, blubbering against him.

He seems to understand. “Come on,” he says, gently guiding me. “We’ll go in my office. We’ll have complete privacy there.”

I nod, still sniffling, and follow his direction.

The walk there is a blur. Going through the sliding doors and being lowered into a sofa seat is a blur. Everything is a blur. I don’t even know how I got the glass of water in my hands. I’m operating on a level more basic than autopilot. It’s like my conscious mind has shut down, retracted from what it perceives as an unfathomable threat. I’m little more than a zombie.

The glass. I focus on the glass. The liquid inside is clear. I should drink it. Shouldn’t I? I bring it to my lips, take a sip—and nearly choke when I find it’s not water, but some type of liquor.

“Drink, Lilly.” Jeremy’s voice is firm. I feel his hand wrap around mine and guide the glass to my lips. “Drink. It’ll calm you.”

I find comfort in that strong, authoritative voice. It feels natural to do what he says. It feels natural to comply.

So, I drink all of whatever it is Jeremy gave me. The harsh liquid burns my throat. When it’s all down, a bit of clarity settles over me.

I blink once or twice, clearing my eyes. Jeremy comes into view.

He’s kneeling beside me, his public mask flung away, concern shining through his dark, beautiful eyes. He looks a vision, as always, and I have a surreal moment when I consider that this man actually and truly cares for me.

“Lilly.” He takes my hand and holds it between his, stroking his thumb over my knuckle. “Lilly-Flower. Talk to me. Tell me what happened. When I saw you through the elevator camera, I nearly lost it.”

“That’s—that’s how you knew?” I blubber. “That’s how you knew to get me?”

“I get alerted whenever somebody tries to come to the top floor. I have to approve or deny the request. Usually, the calls only come with my invitations, or by an accidental button strike. When I heard the call come again, and again, and again, when I looked through the camera and saw that it was you, I knew something was wrong. So tell me. What the hell happened?”

I use the back of my free hand to wipe away the tears.

Damn, I must look a mess. I bet there’s mascara all over my face.

But the shot of alcohol is having its effect. I’m starting to feel better. Stronger. More like myself. More in control.

Or maybe it’s not the alcohol that’s doing that. Maybe it’s Jeremy’s presence.

My bet is on the latter.

“Hugh,” I say simply.

Jeremy blinks, and then frowns. “Hugh?” he asks.

“Yes, Hugh,” I say. “Mr. Hugh? One of your board members?”

Jeremy looks uncertain. “Lilly…” he says slowly. “I don’t have a board member named Hugh.”

“Mr. Blackthorne?” I try. “He said some people know him by that.”

Jeremy’s expression shifts instantly. His eyes narrow. His jaw sets. He looks at me with unwavering intensity.

“Who told you that name?” he whispers.

“Hugh did!” I exclaim. “Weren’t you listening? Hugh, or Mr. Hugh, or Mr. Blackthorne, or whoever he is. That’s not the important bit. Jeremy, he had—”

“That
is
the important bit,” he says softly, cutting me off. “That
name
,” he nearly grimaces, “is not to be spoken in my presence. I’ll ask you once more, Lilly. This time, I expect the truth. Where did you learn that name?”

“Hugh told me!” I say again, irritation with Jeremy’s obstinacy starting to overtake my other emotions. “Why won’t you let me finish? Why does it matter what his name is? Jeremy, he had—”

“It matters to
me
.” His voice is like steel cutting through soft silk. He stands, and walks away from me. He looks out the window, both hands clasped behind his back.

“What are you telling me?” he asks. There’s a dangerous undercurrent to his voice that I heard last when I knew him as Stonehart. “Is this a trick, Lilly? Running to me in distress, interrupting my work, only to
mock me
…” his voice rises, filling the words with unbridled scorn, “…with that filthy name? Where did you find it? Is that my reward for granting you your freedom? Is that what you’ve been doing all last week? Snooping and researching online while I thought you were
working
?”

“Jeremy, no!” I protest, standing up. It’s obvious that mention of that name has put him on edge. Why, I haven’t the faintest clue.

I come up to him and rub his arm. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I—”

“Don’t
touch
me,” he snarls, ripping away.

I freeze.

Jeremy stalks away. He goes straight to the bar and pours himself a drink, then downs it in one swallow. He pours a second, and repeats the process. He does all this facing away from me.

He places his hands on the counter, and lowers his head. I’m impressed—and frightened—by the sheer bulk of his body. He is so tall. As his back rises and falls with his even breathing, I’m reminded of an angered bear.

I remember a documentary I once saw. It was about a man who lived in the wild and adopted two bear cubs when they were young. For years, he raised them, filming the process and his interactions with them. The three would wrestle. They’d play fight. Even as the bears grew, their friendship continued. Once they got big enough, the man would ride their backs and go hunting with them.

The story did not have a happy ending. One day, for some reason or other, one of the grown bears got angry. Or maybe it was an accident, where the bear misjudged his own strength. Whatever it was, it was all caught on tape and then retracted from the documentary.

The man was killed by the bears. It did not matter that they had spent fifteen years together. It did not matter that he had raised them from birth. It did not matter that they had a kinship.

Now that I think of it, it was not the bear that misjudged anything. It was the man. He’d tried to tame two wild beasts. Though, for the longest time, it looked like he’d succeeded, in the end, his mistake cost him his life.

That is the moral of the story. You cannot adopt a wild animal as a pet. It does not matter how strong your connection might be. Beasts are not meant to be tamed. No matter what you do, you cannot change that nature.

That is how I feel with Jeremy at the moment. I haven’t tamed the man. I cannot change who he is. The potential for violence, for anger, for a return to
Stonehart
is always there.

And it will continue to be there, lying latent somewhere inside, for all his life. Until a trigger provokes a reaction.

Like the name has done now.

So I don’t approach him. If anything, I take a small step back.

I see his fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. He’s trying to regain control.

I pray, mostly for my sake, that he succeeds.

“Lilly,” he says. “I do not control you, anymore. But I still hope—hope!—that some of the things you’ve learned about me when I did hold sway over you remain. You know how I hate repeating myself.” He turns his head, slowly. His eyes pierce into me. “So don’t make me do it.”

I bite my lip and try to think, urging my brain to work faster. I know what he’s talking about. The question he posed, for which I haven’t been able to provide a satisfactory answer.

But what do I do when the truth fails? I do not want to lie.

“I…” I stammer, and then I catch myself. Jeremy does not want a frail, pathetic, weak woman in front of him. So what if Hugh—whoever he is—has a replica of the collar? It’s not going to harm me. It’s not like he’ll tackle me to the floor and force it around my neck.

The image of that small, old man, trying to grapple me to the floor is so ridiculous it makes me want to laugh. He’s no taller than my shoulder! And he’s got to be pushing seventy.

He’s no threat. Not
physically
, anyway. Besides, I’ve dealt with much, much worse while under Jeremy’s care. And who did I run to then? Nobody! I relied on
myself
. I got
myself
out of that situation.

That is exactly what I’ll do here. Running to Jeremy was a cop-out. It was a sign of weakness, of dependence. I must squash it in the future.

So I straighten. I roll my shoulders back. I address Jeremy in a calm, cool voice.